


Run Away With Me

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Art as a Metaphor for Humanity, Bottom Barry, Coldflash Pulls an Olicity, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Outdoor Sex, Running Away Together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:38:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6662791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After defeating Zoom, Barry needs to get away from it all. So, he asks Leonard Snart, newly returned from his mission through time, to run away with him to Opal City. What starts as an impromptu vacation turns into something more serious as both men realize the depth of their feelings for one another. --ON HIATUS--</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leaving Tonight When Everyone's Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to that stupid new meme, I've had [Run Away With Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeccAtqd5K8) by Carly Rae Jepsen stuck in my head for weeks, so you have that to thank for the inspiration behind this fic, as well as the fic and chapter titles.  
> I really liked the idea of Coldflash sort of pulling an Olicity, just driving off into the sunset together, so this is what happened. Be forewarned, while this fic will be quite fluffy, there will also be angst. That's just who I am as a person. Also, school starts next week for me, so the updates on this thing probably won't be super regular, but I'll try my best.  
> New tags will be added along the way, because spoilers, so keep an eye out for those (though it won't be anything devastating like character death, I promise)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Barry sinks to his knees.

All around him, sirens blare, car alarms sound. The sun hangs low in the sky, crimsons, pinks, and oranges bleeding through the dark, inky blue cover of twilight. Sparks fly from the street lights lining the avenue, smashed and broken, as they try in vain to flicker to life. 

In the center of the road, among the abandoned cars, some crushed beyond recognition, others set ablaze, is Hunter Zolomon’s empty suit, the black tripolymer a graceless heap piled atop the asphalt. 

Barry watched, unable to tear his eyes away, as Zolomon disappeared into nothingness, cells and molecules and atoms shaking apart as he overdosed on the energy of the Speed Force. He thought they were so close, thought Caitlin was getting through to him, to the parts of him that had pretended to be Jay Garrick, that had  _ become  _ Jay Garrick, all those months they were together.  

But now it’s too late. Jay - or Hunter - or whoever he was - is gone. 

Is dead. 

Barry feels a warm hand descend on his shoulder, tugging him upright. Barry doesn’t move, can’t move. All he can do is stare at the empty suit lying on the pavement, the only remnants of a man who was both cherished friend and mortal enemy rolled into one, and how did this keep happening to him, anyway? 

“Barry.” 

The voice behind him is soft, yet coaxing all at once, and familiar in a way that fills some of the all-consuming emptiness in Barry’s chest, makes him feel a little less numb. 

“Barry, come on,” the voice says again, this time more insistent. The hand moves from his shoulder to his elbow and pulls, hauling Barry to his feet. 

Barry leans heavily against the man’s solid frame, head rolling listlessly to the side and nestling itself into the fur of his hood. An arm wraps around his waist, and the other coaxes the speedster’s own arm around the older man’s neck. 

“There you go,” he whispers into Barry’s ear. He leads Barry to a nearby alleyway, the young man’s feet shuffling as he walks, the repeated, concussive force of bodies hitting the pavement at hundreds of miles per hour leaving the ground under his feet cracked and broken. 

When the men reach the alley, a large, black van opens its rear doors. Barry feels himself being manhandled into the vehicle, but doesn’t have the energy to help. It isn’t until they’re rushing back to S.T.A.R. Labs and Cisco hands him a protein bar that he begins to feel even remotely human again. 

“Thanks, Dude,” Barry mutters, cowl pulled back, head resting against the wall of the van. 

“Don’t thank me,” Cisco replies. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but thank Snart. If he hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what would have happened.” 

Barry turns his head slowly and gets his first real look at the older man since his fight with Zoom ended. His goggles are pulled down around his neck, Cold Gun secured to a holster on his thigh. Barry remembers the last time he saw him, days before Christmas, standing in the middle of Joe’s living room with hot chocolate and snark and this  _ heat  _ in his eyes that made Barry’s whole body zing with electricity. 

“I do,” Snart says, his voice a steady, measured drawl. “And while I’ll spare you all the gory details, let’s just say, you’re better off I did.” 

By the time they arrive back at S.T.A.R. Labs, Barry’s managed to regain enough of his strength to walk from the parking lot to the cortex on his own, though his steps do have a slight, undeniable wobble. Snart stays no more than half a step behind him the whole way, eyes trained on the speedster with unwavering focus. Wells, who hopped anxiously from the driver’s seat as soon as the van was parked, keeps flashing Snart odd, confused looks, but, in true Wells fashion, says nothing about it. 

“Thank God, Barry!” 

Joe pulls the costumed hero into a bone crushing hug as soon as Barry arrives in the cortex, which the younger man immediately returns. He lets out a small, broken sob, and Joe cradles his head and rocks them gently in place. 

“You’re okay,” he whispers, again and again, until Barry eventually nods and pulls away, cowl drawn down, wiping at his eyes. 

As Iris moves to hug Barry in her father’s stead, Joe turns to Snart and nods. “Thank you,” he says, voice solemn and deep, with a slight waver. “So much. For looking out for my boy.” 

Snart’s expression is measured and guarded as he glances over at the other man. “No need to get all misty-eyed on me, Detective,” he replies. “Just doing my part.” 

“Didn’t figure you for much of a  _ doing your part _ kind of person,” Joe scoffs. 

Snart just shrugs. “Yeah, well,” he says. Then, he looks over and meets Barry’s eyes, and the look that’s exchanged between them makes Barry’s toes curl. Snart doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. Barry can feel it, pulsing and sparking in the air between them, turning it heavy and thick, making it difficult for Barry to draw in his next breath. 

“Your vitals look normal,” Caitlin says, lowering the tablet from her face, looking up at the speedster seriously. 

“Yeah, of course,” Barry replies, head shaking, as he begins pulling off his gloves. “I’m fine, you guys, really. Just tired.” 

After another minute of insistent poking and prodding from Caitlin, Barry excuses himself and retreats to the locker room downstairs where he can change out of his suit. He’s in the middle of pulling his jeans on, bare chest still exposed and crawling with gooseflesh thanks to the frigid air-conditioning, when he’s hit with the overwhelming feeling of being watched. 

When Barry turns his head to the left, he sees Snart standing in the threshold, body leaned heavily against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Thought you’d have left by now,” Barry says, pulling his shirt from his locker, flipping the fabric around in his hands until he can find the bottom. 

Snart shrugs. “You’re okay, then?” he asks, voice pitched low. 

When Barry looks back up at him, their eyes meet for a brief moment before Snart’s flick back to the floor. “Why do you care?” the speedster asks, shoving his t-shirt over his head and quickly down his sides. “Actually, you know what? No. Why do you keep helping me?” 

Snart looks up again, mouth opening to speak, but Barry cuts him off before he has the chance. “And don’t give me anymore of your bullshit about owing me, or whatever. Because we’re even, okay? After Christmas, we’re even. And I can’t keep doing this with you. I can’t keep playing this game. Not today, after everything that just happened. Maybe not ever. I’m too tired, Leonard, for any of it.” 

The locker shuts forcefully with a loud  _ clang _ , and Barry steps forward until he’s standing scarcely two feet away from the older man. “So be honest, for once in your life,” he whispers. Snart’s intense gaze catches Barry dead in the eyes, and Barry feels himself shiver. 

“Why do you keep helping me?” 

When Snart’s rough, broad palms cup Barry around the jaw, the younger man immediately leans in, not just letting himself be pulled forward but helping the process along, until warm, chapped lips meet his own. Barry melts into hands, his mouth, the heat radiating from his body. Breath rushes into every one of his tired, depleted cells and he feels alive again. 

“Because you matter to me,” Snart confesses against Barry’s lips, nose brushing along the younger man’s, foreheads pressed together. “I wasn’t gonna let anything happen to you, Barry.” 

Barry’s fingers dig into the fabric at Snart’s elbows, grip edging on painful, before swooping forward to kiss the older man again. “You matter to me, too,” Barry whispers, head shaking. “And I’m tired of pretending you don’t. Tired of putting everybody else’s needs in front of what I want. My friends, my family, this city. Fuck, a whole other universe. But I’m done.” 

“Barry?” Snart says softly, uncertain, and Barry can feel the furrow of the older man’s brow against his own. 

“Would you go with me?” Barry asks, his voice breathy and rushed. “If I just left, would you go with me?” 

Snart swallows thickly. “Are you serious?” 

Firmly, Barry nods. “Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah, I’m serious. I can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep doing this. At least, not right now. I need time. I need a break. So, let’s just go. Yeah?” 

Barry looks at Snart with wide, pleading eyes, but it’s still a surprise when the older man pulls him back in for another tender, toe-curling kiss. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Wherever you want, Barry. We’ll go.” 

It’s Barry’s turn to furrow his brow. “Seriously?” he asks. 

“If you’re serious, then I’m serious,” Snart replies with a small, solemn nod. “When do you wanna leave?” 

Barry sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. “How about now?” he whispers, bouncing nervously on his toes. 

Snart lets out a small, quiet chuckle. “Now works for me,” he replies. Then, he takes a long, slow step back, at which Barry lets out an embarrassing whine. “Give me a half-hour to grab a few things, then I’ll swing by and pick you up. Here or at the detective’s?” 

“Here’s fine,” Barry replies. The repetitive bouncing on the balls of his feet has gone from anxious to excited, and he can’t stop the smile that’s overtaking his face. Snart smiles back at him, smaller but still every bit as meaningful, eyes soft. 

“I’ll see you, Barry,” the older man says, quiet and gentle. Then, he turns on his heels and leaves the speedster alone in the silence of the locker room.

 

* * *

 

When the sleek, black Chevy Corvette pulls up outside S.T.A.R. Labs, Barry meets it at the curb and pulls open the passenger side door before the car’s even come to a complete stop. He tosses his duffel bag into the open trunk space behind him, then looks over at Snart with a hesitant smile. 

“Do I even wanna know where you got this?” Barry asks, closing the door gently and turning to buckle himself in. 

Snart chuckles and puts the car in gear, pulling out of the lot and onto the road. “Relax, Barry,” he replies. “It was a gift.” 

“From?” Barry squeaks. 

Again, Snart chuckles. “Me to me,” the older man explains. “The Waverider has this nifty little fabricator on board. Gotta love future technology. And, of course, I convinced Rip that after everything we went through, saving the future and what have you, we each deserved a little something for our trouble.” 

“And you chose a sports car?” 

Snart flicks on his turn signal and pulls over to the rightmost lane. “What would you have had me pick instead?” he wonders. 

“I dunno,” Barry replies with a small, uncertain shrug. “The Mona Lisa? A Van Gog? Something a little more valuable, at least.” 

“But you see, Barry,” Snart says, shifting in his seat. “That’s the thing about art. It’s only as valuable as the person who created it. And, like it or not, anything that time ship spit out was still gonna be a fake.” 

Barry tilts his head, curious. “And you’re only interested in the money?” he asks. 

Snart shrugs. “I still could have fenced the fake,” he replies. “With the Waverider’s tech, telling the forgery apart from the original would be impossible.” 

Barry frowns. “Then why didn’t you?” he asks. “Used the money to buy yourself a dozen sports cars, and then whatever the hell else you wanted on top of that?” 

“Like I said,” Snart replies. “Nine tenths of the beauty of art is its value, it’s history, and that’s something no amount of future tech can replace. Wouldn’t have felt right.”  

Slowly, Barry nods. The two men sit in companionable silence for another few minutes, listening to the purr of the Corvette’s engine and the sound of the tires speeding against the asphalt, until the exit that leads to the interstate comes into view. 

Snart clenches his fists around the wheel and clears his throat. “Where do you wanna go?” he asks, throwing Barry a cautious look from the corner of his eye. 

The exit is fast approaching, and Barry knows he has to make a decision. A responsible person might have asked to turn the car around, to go back to the real world, to stop running away from all the anxiety and the hurt and to toughen up and  _ face it _ .  

Except Barry isn’t interested in being responsible right now. 

“I hear Opal City’s nice this time of year,” the speedster says instead. “The water’s even warm enough to swim, if you can handle a bit of cold.” 

To Barry’s left, Snart smirks. “I think I’ll manage.” 

Flicking the blinker on, Snart veers the car right to take the exit. He sinks back into his seat and moves one hand from the wheel to rest it on the center console. Hesitantly, Barry reaches over and slips his long, thin fingers between the older man’s, careful not to press too forcefully, to push the boundaries between them that are still so tentative and new. 

Much to Barry’s relief, Snart squeezes down reassuringly on his finger, then lets the pad of his thumb trace small, gentle circles against the back of the younger man’s hand. Barry doesn’t bother trying to hide the bright, expressive smile that breaks out across his face, and even Snart’s smirk loses a bit of its sly edge under the warmth of the speedster’s gaze. 

The pair travel in silence until they’ve left the congestion of the city behind. The I-70 is light on traffic so late into the evening, and Snart’s foot presses heavier on the gas, pushing the speed limit by an extra ten miles per hour. Barry doesn’t comment, instead settling back in his seat and tracing absent patterns against Snart’s skin where their hands are intertwined. 

“You know,” Barry says after another few minutes of driving. “This is the most relaxed I’ve felt in, well, years really. Since becoming The Flash.” 

Quietly, Snart hums. “I know what you mean,” he replies. “Turns out being a hero is a hell of a lot harder than you make it look.” 

Barry lets his head loll gently to the side to watch the older man’s profile as he speaks. 

“When you’re a crook, you’re in it for yourself,” Snart continues. “The highest the stakes can get is your own life. But, as it turns out, when you’re a hero, suddenly the stakes are more than just your own life. It’s everyone’s life. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.” 

Snart’s blasé statement catapults Barry into a fit of laughter. “You’re telling me,” he says. “Do you know how many times I wished I could just forget about it all. Let The Reverse Flash, and Zoom, and, hell, even you, be somebody else’s problem.” 

“Well, I really am your problem now, Barry,” the older man teases and Barry blushes, shaking his head. 

“You know what I mean, Snart,” he says. 

Barry watches critically as Snart’s head tilts to the side, contemplative. “Call me Len,” he says finally. 

Slowly, Barry nods. “Len,” he agrees with a small, bashful smile. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Len continues, tearing his eyes from the younger man and back onto the road. “I did like the whole hero business. Doing the right thing. It’s a pain in the ass, but the payoff is great. Better rush than any job I ever pulled. And I had great team.” 

Len lets out a small chuckle and shakes his head. “Sara,” he says. “Sara’s something else. Spunky, and an insufferable do-gooder, even with her history. You’d like her.” 

“Man,” Barry groans, sliding further down into his seat. “I know. I can’t believe I haven’t met her yet. Felicity’s always telling me so much about her. That she has that whole  _ smartass, badass, great ass _ thing going on. Does she really make you want to have her punch you in the face?” 

Len chuckles lightly. “I wouldn’t tell her no, if she asked,” he replies.  

“Man,” Barry says again. Then, he straightens back out in his seat and turns his hips to face Len more directly. “I’m really glad you like her,” he continues, voice soft and gentle. “That you have all these people in your life now. People who see the good in you, like I do.”  

Len’s fingers twitch against the younger man’s, and Barry can feel that his whole body’s gone rigid. “They wouldn't have,” he whispers, quietly enough that Barry has to strain to hear. “I never would have gone on Rip’s little hero quest if it wasn’t for you. I really didn’t think I could be the person you saw me as. But you made me want to try.”

“I’m glad you did,” Barry says softly, raising their intertwined hands to place a featherlight kiss against Len’s knuckles. 

The older man glances over at him in the dim light of the dashboard and smiles. “I’m glad I did, too,” he replies. 

For the next few hours, Len regales Barry with epic tales of his adventures through time. At first, the stories are filled with wonder and excitement. Len’s laughter, light and carefree, runs like sunshine through Barry’s bloodstream. The creases around Len’s eyes, barely visible in the soft glow of the interior lights, look like the veining in a priceless marble statue. Barry feels so privileged to be in this moment, the warm weight of Len’s hand pressed against his own, the openness of his words, his body, his heart. 

Barry feels the mood shift, however, as the older man’s stories take on a distinctly sour note.

“When Mick sold us out to the Time Pirates,” Len drawls, voice tight and on edge. “I’m still not sure I know who betrayed who. I turned my back on him. Pulled my gun on him. Abandoned him.” 

“To save the world,” Barry says gently, thumb stroking against Len’s hand. 

Len scoffs. “What did the world mean to me without him in it?” the older man quips. “He was offering me a way out. I could have come home. To Central City. To Lisa.

“But I knew,” Len continues, swallowing thickly. “Some part of me knew, that if I turned my back on the mission, I could never home to you.” 

The confession makes a spike of heat flare low through Barry’s gut. Len looks over at him with hot, searching eyes, but all Barry can do is offer him a small, abrupt nod. 

“I can’t remember the last time someone had the kind of faith in me that you do, Barry,” Len whispers, and Barry has to blink back a sudden surge of tears pricking at his eyes. 

“Lisa,” the older man continues, throat clearing uncomfortably, the leather of the steering wheel squeaking under his grip. “She’s always had faith in me as a brother, and as a damn fine criminal. But she was never the one who encouraged me to be a better man. Because, to her, I was already as good a man as I was ever gonna get. Because you don’t grow up with a father like Lewis Snart and end up a God damn superhero. It was good enough for her that I never put my hands on her when I was angry, when she made a mistake. The bar was never set very high.” 

Len shifts in his seat, the noise still failing to obscure a small sniffle, and Barry has to use the palm of his free hand to wipe at the corners of his eyes. He squeezes Len’s hand, gentle yet reassuring, and the older man returns it with a squeeze of his own. 

“But you, Barry,” he says, looking over at the speedster in the seat to his right. “You expect so much more from me. And I don’t know how to thank you for that.” 

Barry blinks heavily, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. “Hey,” he says, tugging gently on Len’s hand. “I’m so proud of you, okay? Because you’re right. People don’t just walk away from a past like yours. But you did. Despite everything, you didn’t just survive, Len. You became this incredible man,  _ who saved the world _ . That isn’t something that just anybody can do. And it wasn’t all just me, either. It was you, too. So give yourself some credit. You did something amazing. You are amazing.” 

Len’s eyes flick from the road to steal another quick glance at Barry, and the younger man can see the wetness of his eyes shining in the glow of the dashboard lights. Barry nods at him, sure and slow, and Len nods back before returning his eyes to the road. Barry’s insides feel hot and turbulent, like a pot left to boil on an open flame. The depth of his feelings for the older man is unfathomable and terrifying, but Barry wouldn’t have it any other way. 

As they cross state lines into Indiana, Barry can’t hold back the yawn that overtakes him. He raises his free hand to stifle it, but Len’s already caught him out. 

“You should get some rest,” the older man says with a small, gentle chuckle. “You’ve had a long day, Barr.” 

“No,” Barry replies, shaking his head. “I’m okay. Maybe we could just stop for some coffee.” 

Len sighs. “You need to sleep,” he says. 

“I have the rest of my life to sleep,” Barry mumbles, curling into his side to rest his cheek against the headrest and stare more openly at the other man. “Right now, I wanna be with you.” 

Len is silent for a moment, but then he flips the blinker on and shifts lanes, veering the car into the upcoming off ramp. “Okay, Barry,” he says. “Let’s do coffee.” 

* * *

 

Despite his best efforts, somewhere around Columbus, Barry drifts off in the passenger seat, fingers still intertwined with Len’s. He doesn’t wake until they’re pulling up outside the valet station of a posh hotel in downtown Opal City, a sprawling, opulent building set right on the waterfront. The sun has already risen in the east, sitting low in the early morning sky, the faintest traces of pink still visible among the soft blues and whites of the clouds. 

Barry pulls his duffel from the trunk and slings it over his shoulder, then follow Len into the hotel lobby as the older man tosses his keys to the valet. A warm hand descends on the small of Barry’s back, and the speedster allows himself to lean into Len’s steadying touch. 

“We’ll take your nicest suite,” Len drawls as he and Barry step up to the counter. 

The woman on duty looks up from her computer screen and blinks owlishly at the pair. It’s obvious from the dark circles around her eyes that she’s nearing the end of her graveyard shift, and it takes a long, silent moment for her to process Len’s abrupt request. 

“Of course,” she says finally, nodding. Her fingers begin tapping ardently at the keys. “We do have one of our suites available at this time, complete with a waterfront view and complimentary breakfast in our lounge, or delivered to your room. How long will you be staying with us?” 

When the woman looks up at Len, he shrugs offhandedly and taps the edge of his credit card against the dark wood of the varnished countertop. “Dunno yet,” he replies. 

Any protest the woman might have dies on her lips as Len slides over his Centurion Card with a sly, charming smile. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” she says instead as she sets about scanning the card and confirming their reservation. 

“Okay, I know you stole  _ that _ ,” Barry whispers into Len’s ear, head resting on his chin. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Barry,” Len replies in a hushed whisper of his own. “That account is perfectly legitimate.” 

Barry lets out a small hum of disbelief, and Len sighs. “The money inside it, however,” he admits, and chuckles hotly against the young man’s ear. 

“Your room is ready for you,” says the woman behind the desk, handing over a small paper envelope with two key cards nestled inside, along with Len’s credit card. “If you need anything else, feel free to call down to the concierge’s desk anytime.” 

“Thank you very much,” Len replies, leaning in to read the name etched into the woman’s name tag. “Elise.” 

Elise blushes profusely and smiles, head half-bowed in embarrassment, as Len offers her one final parting glance before wrapping his arm around Barry’s waist and leading them toward the elevators. 

“Flirt,” Barry teases, his hand trailing mischievously across Len’s abdomen. 

Len shoots him an innocent look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Barry,” he replies. “I was just being polite.” 

Barry scoffs. “Of course you were.” 

During their exchange, the elevator doors open with a  _ ding _ , and Len escorts Barry inside. He lurches forward to press the button for the 32nd floor, then leans back against the handrails and lets Barry press into his side, hiding his head in the curve of his neck. 

“You tired?” Len asks, tracing a hand through Barry’s hair. 

Barry hums in assent. “Are you?” he replies. “You’re the one who did all the driving. I at least got to sneak in a nap.” 

“I’m fine,” Len assures him. “Wasn’t my first sleepless night, probably won’t be my last.”  

As Len speaks, the elevator doors slide open and both men step from the car onto their floor. The hallways are lined with shining marble floors and elegant sconces along the walls. When Len slides the key card across the scanner, a small light on the doorknob flicks from red to green and, with a twist of the handle, the door swings inward to reveal their suite. 

Barry doesn’t waste a second. As soon as the heavy wooden door closes behind them, his mouth is on Len’s, duffle bag sliding from his shoulder to the floor. Len kisses back, hot and open-mouthed, crowding Barry up against the wall and running a hand through his hair as the other grips onto his hip. 

“I thought you were tired,” Len pants against Barry’s lips. The puff of his breath makes the younger man shiver. 

“I am,” Barry replies. Then, he leans forward and captures Len’s mouth again in a deep, salacious kiss. His hands fumble with the buckle on Len’s belt until he manages to pry it open, and Len returns the favor by sliding his hands under Barry’s shirt and pushing it up over his head. 

As soon as Barry’s shirt hits the floor, their mouths are back on one another’s. Barry pulls the belt from through the loops of Len’s jeans and tosses it away, then gets to work on his button and zipper. Len’s hands fall to Barry’s waist and give the younger man’s jeans the same treatment. First, the belt goes, then the button and zipper until he’s able to push the fabric down around Barry’s knees, and Barry quickly kicks them off, along with his shoes.  

“Fuck, Len,” Barry whines, hands digging into the older man’s shoulders, the fabric of his thermal shirt gathering under the younger man’s fingers. “Off,” he says, tugging harder at Len’s shirt. “Please.” 

Obediently, Len brings an arm up and grabs his collar at the base of his skull, then pulls, sliding the fabric up and off in one fluid motion. 

“Fuck,” Barry repeats, head falling back and hitting heavily against the wall. Len takes the opportunity to trail wet, demanding kisses along the exposed column of the speedster’s neck. As he sucks on the flesh at the corner of Barry’s jaw, the younger man whines filthily and cants his hips forward. His breathing is laboured, like every inhale is a struggle, like he’s just run a marathon and needs to sleep for a week.  

Len chuckles darkly, lips ghosting across Barry’s skin in the most mind-numbing, tantalizing way Barry’s ever experience. “Do you really want our first time together to be sleepy sex?” he asks, taking the lobe of Barry’s ear between his teeth and pulling gently down. 

Barry moans. “I don’t care,” he says, breath still coming in hot, heaving pants. “I just want it to be now.” 

Len grabs Barry by the thighs and slides his lithe body up the wall. Barry instinctively wraps his legs around the older man’s hips and throws his arms around his shoulders, the fingers of one hand tracing absent patterns across the back of Len’s skull. 

Len presses his lower half firmly against Barry’s, and the younger man gasps as he feels Len’s hardness drag against his own. 

“Len, please,” Barry whimpers. He lowers his head at the same time that his hand around Len’s neck forces the older man to look up, and their lips lock once more. The kiss is dirty and heated, all probing tongues and biting teeth. Barry can taste the bitter of rest stop coffee, and illusive traces of a flavour that is unique to the older man, and it’s absolutely intoxicating.  

“Fuck me,” Barry pants into the space between their mouths. He feels the other man shudder against him, before grabbing him more firmly around the thighs and backing them toward gigantic bed in the centre of the room. 

“Yeah, Barry,” Len whispers against the speedster’s lips. “I’ll fuck you. So good.” 

Barry swallows thickly at Len’s words, a wicked shudder ripping through his entire body. “I want you to,” he whines. “So bad. Please, Len. Please.” 

“Shh,” Len soothes as he lowers the younger man down onto the bed. “You don’t have to beg, Barry. I’ll give you whatever you want.” 

Len captures Barry’s lips again, face cradled in one palm, the other pushing into the mattress to brace himself. Barry’s hands trace up and down Len’s side, nails scratching maddeningly, every touch just a hair too light for what the other man wants. Len plunges his tongue in and out of Barry’s mouth, dominating the kiss, and Barry tilts his head back, giving the older man more access. 

Barry’s hands wander from Len’s sides to the waistband of his jeans. He pushes them down, and Len’s body twists to help him along. Next, Len’s hand slides from Barry’s face to tug at his underwear, and Barry’s hips raise, legs kicking the unwanted garment away. 

Len’s hand immediately wraps around Barry’s cock and begins jerking him off, strokes long and slow. Barry writhes beneath him, toes curling, back arching, head falling heavily against the pillow. 

“Oh, fuck, Len,” he bites out, teeth clenched firmly together. “I’m not gonna last.” 

Len bows his head to suck one of Barry’s pert nipples into his mouth, teasing the hardened bud expertly between his teeth. Barry lets out an obscene moan as the feeling of Len’s wet tongue, coupled with the motions of his hand on Barry’s cock, rockets him dangerously close to the edge. 

“Then don’t,” Len replies, finally drawing his lips away from Barry’s chest. “We have all the time in the world, Barry. This doesn’t have to happen all at once.” 

Barry mewls as Len bends again to trail the point of his tongue along the speedster’s sternum. “At least let me touch you, too,” he pants. 

Working together, Barry and Len manage to get Len’s underwear to join the growing pile of clothes on the floor while keeping their lips interlocked. As soon as they’re both naked, Len brings a hand up and licks a broad, wet stripe up the centre of his palm, then brings it between the press of their bodies to grip their erections. 

Barry’s back arches up off the mattress, and the tips of his fingers dig into the taut muscles of Len’s shoulders, slick with sweat. Len sucks a bruise into the right side of his neck, then pulls back and hums appreciatively as he observes his work. 

“You taste so fantastic, Barry,” the older man whispers into the speedster’s ear, and Barry whines. He takes a hand from around Len’s shoulders and moves to wrap it around his hand as he jerks them off. 

Barry and Len’s lips meet again like crashing waves along the shore, a tsunami of passion building between them as they continue to kiss and rut and stroke. Beads of sweat roll along Barry’s brow, down his back, and in the bends of his elbows and knees. He’s so damn tired, but he doesn’t care, just wants to get off, wants to get Len off, too. 

“I’m almost there,” Barry says. 

“I know,” Len replies. He bumps their noses gently together then swoops in for another deep, demanding kiss. “Me too, Barry. So close.” 

“Together?” Barry asks, his voice a small, barely audible puff of air across Len’s face. 

“Yeah, Barry,” Len says, voice equally wrecked. “Together.” 

With another few strokes of Len’s hand, Barry’s coming, so hard the bones of his feet crack as they curl. A jolt of superspeed rips through his body, vibrating his entire frame, including the hand still clasped around Len’s length, and that’s all it takes to get the older man off, too. He comes with a deep groan against the hollow of Barry’s throat, and if Barry hadn’t already come, that would have certainly done the trick. 

“Holy fuck,” Barry whispers, struggling to get his breathing back under control as he comes down from the high of his orgasm. 

Len collapses in bed next to him, their sides pressed together and burning hot. Barry grabs a few tissues from the box on the nightstand and wipes down his chest and abdomen, then passes a handful over to Len to do the same. Barry leaves the sullied tissues gracelessly on the nightstand then pulls the covers back, urging them both to slip underneath. 

“This is nice,” the younger man whispers absently as Len curls up behind him, wrapping his arms firmly around Barry’s chest. He places a gentle kiss to the back of Barry’s neck and hums. 

“Sleep, Barry,” he orders. 

Barry sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Sleep.” 

And they do. 


	2. Take Me to the Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. Expect the next one to take even longer. On the upside, school is great!   
> Also, it seems as though I've forgotten how to make chapter lengths consistent. Oh well.

Barry wakes to the gentle rays of sunshine against his skin and the smell of fresh coffee in the air. He cracks his eyes open and shuffles atop the plush mattress, head burrowing into the pillows. Len approaches him with a tray piled high with pastries and fresh fruit, a steaming carafe of coffee sitting next to a large porcelain mug in the corner. The older man has a towel wrapped around his shoulders, sleep pants hung low on his hips, chest left exposed. Barry takes a moment to admire the planes of his body, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the soft swell of his hips, the myriad of scars carved into his flesh. Then, he meets Len’s eyes and smiles openly, a smile the other man returns. 

“Hey,” Barry says as Len takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He slides into a sitting position and lets Len place the tray across his lap. 

“Hey, yourself,” the older man replies, grabbing the mug and filling it with dark, rich coffee. 

“What time is it?” Barry wonders. 

Len passes the steaming cup over, palm wrapped around the pale porcelain, handle left free for the younger man to grab. “Quarter to one,” he replies. 

Barry takes the mug from Len and sips cautiously. “Have you been up long?” 

Len shrugs. “A couple of hours,” he says. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Barry whines. 

Len chuckles and leans forward to cradle the side of Barry’s jaw in his palm. “You looked like you could use the rest,” he replies. 

The gentle scratch of blunt fingernails at the base of Barry’s skull makes him melt into the sheets, and he turns his head to kiss the base of Len’s wrist. “Hey, come here, you,” he mumbles, then, tugging at Len’s arm, Barry pulls the older man down into a long, slow lip-lock. 

“So,” Len drawls as they separate, leaning back and stealing a blueberry off Barry’s tray, popping it into his mouth. “What do you feel like doing today, now that you’re a free man?” 

“Well,” Barry sighs, biting coyly at his lip and resting a hand on Len’s knee, slowly dragging up upward with obvious intent. 

Len chuckles softly and halts the younger man’s wandering fingers by intertwining them with his own. “Patience,” he husks. Barry swallows thickly as stormy blue eyes stare him down. “We have plenty of time for that later.” 

“Seriously?” Barry groans. He grabs a croissant frustratedly off the tray and shoves half of it into his mouth as Len laughs at him. 

“They’re showing a new collection at the art gallery downtown,” the older man says as he takes another blueberry between his thumb and forefinger and examines it. 

Barry chuckles around his mouthful of buttery pastry. “You mean to tell me there’s a single art gallery in this entire country that doesn’t have your picture on display at the front desk as some kind of warning sign?” the younger man teases. 

Len frowns. “You wound me, Scarlet,” he drawls, then tosses the blueberry expertly into his mouth. 

Still, once Barry has eaten his fill, he dresses quickly and retrieves his cell phone from last night’s pair of jeans, shoving it hastily into his front pocket. The speedster had switched the device off before getting into the older man’s Corvette, and he doesn’t want to face turning it back on, reestablishing that connection to the outside world, just yet. 

Len changes into his clothes as well, and soon, the couple make their way to the nearby Opal City Museum of Modern Art. Len pays their admission fee at the front desk without incident, and Barry grabs a brochure from the display on the counter to read up on some of the featured collections. 

Len places a hand on the small of Barry’s back to lead him forward, just as he had the night before, and Barry melts into it. It feels natural and right, like powerful magnets of opposite poles being drawn together, pulled together, by a force far greater than themselves and beyond anyone’s control. 

“Why is modern art so weird?” Barry asks in a gentle whisper, head tilted curiously to the side, as they stop to admire one of the paintings hanging in the cubist wing of the museum. 

Fondly, Len chuckles. “It isn’t weird,” he replies. “Or, at least, I don’t think it is. Art is funny that way. Everybody has their own personal taste, but, in the grand scheme of things, that doesn’t actually say anything about the art itself. Just the individual. One man’s weird is another man’s masterpiece.” 

Barry hums quietly. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess you’re right.” 

“Of course I’m right,” Len replies. “This is what I do, Barry.” 

Gently, Barry trails the fingers of his left hand down Len’s arm until he can remove it from the small of his back to interlace their fingers instead. The speedster leads the older man through a nearby archway and into the pop art exhibit. 

“You’re right, you know,” Barry says, voice pitched low in the quiet of the museum. When Len looks over at him, brow furrowed in confusion, Barry elaborates. “This is what you do,” he continues. “Art. And you’re really good at it. You could go back to school, get a degree in Art History. Maybe even become an art consultant someday.” 

Len snorts. “Art thief turned art consultant,” he drawls, heavily sarcastic. “Doesn’t that sound like a promising career move?”  

Barry frowns. “You’re not the same person you used to be, Len,” he says. “You deserve a second chance.” 

“That’s debatable,” Len replies. 

Barry shakes his head. “It’s true,” he insists, but he doesn’t push the topic further. 

After spending another few minutes taking in the stylistic and easily recognisable iconography of the pop art display, the pair move into the next exhibit. Immediately, Barry is overcome by the whimsical, uninhibited brushstrokes of the paintings, the way the shapes and colours and textures are free and unrestrained, yet still evoke a strong sense of emotion and vague familiarity as he observes them from their perches on the walls. 

“This is beautiful,” Barry says softly, eyes caught on a large oil on canvas piece in bright purples and reds that’s either a woman or a dahlia, he can’t be sure. 

Len’s arms circle around the younger man’s waist, and his chin brushes teasingly against his shoulder. “Hate to break it to you, Barry,” the thief whispers. “But that’s actually a forgery.” 

Barry frowns. “Seriously?” he asks, his hands moving to twine his fingers between the older man’s. 

“Unfortunately,” Len replies. 

“How do you know for sure?” Barry wonders. 

Len huffs a laugh. “Because,” he says. “Back in ‘93, I’m the one who stole the original.” 

Barry shouldn’t find the flippant response so amusing, but he does, and he can’t help the small chuckle that escapes past his lips. “What happened to preserving history, or whatever?” the speedster asks. 

Len shrugs. “I was young,” he replies. “There were a lot of things I didn’t know how to appreciate yet.”  

The rough timbre of Len’s voice spoken so low and close to his ear, breath puffing teasingly against the lobe, makes Barry shiver and melt back into the older man’s arms. He turns his and leans back to capture Len’s lips between his own in a sweet, easy kiss, mouths brushing lazily, tongues gently probing the other’s entrances without ever delving inside. 

“I still think it’s a beautiful painting,” Barry says as their kiss breaks, looking up into Len’s cloudy blue eyes. “And that’s gotta count for something, right?” 

Len smiles back down at him, soft and hopeful. “I suppose it does,” he replies.

The pair spend another two hours touring the museum, passing through the fauvist exhibit, then the futurist exhibit, as well as the exhibits on surrealism and impressionism and hyperrealism. When they’ve finished touring every inch of the gallery, they follow the road signs down to the waterfront and find a small French restaurant on the boardwalk to do dinner together. 

When the waiter arrives at their table with a bottle of 1984 Cabernet Sauvignon and an hors d'oeuvre tray of grilled oysters and eggplant canapes, Barry stares uncertainly at the deep red liquid in his crystal glass and frowns. 

“This wine is older than I am,” he mutters once the waiter’s turned away to serve another table. 

Len chuckles softly, but says nothing in response. Barry turns his head to the right and looks out the window at the ocean just beyond. The sun hangs low in the sky, but is still a few hours from setting. It’s a nice, quiet evening, pedestrians walking along the boardwalk, some hand in hand, others carrying various shopping bags containing the day’s spoils. 

Barry watches as a young boy, no older than two or three, skips ahead of his parents, chasing a pigeon through the crowd. His parents laugh as the sudden flapping of the bird’s wings as it takes off startles the child and he falls backwards onto the soft bulge of his diaper. Immediately, he bursts into tears, big and wet, his face turning red. The father scoops him up off the ground and places him on his hip where the mother busies herself wiping the tear tracks off his chubby little cheeks. Both adults still have their smiles fixed firmly in place, and the cell phone in Barry’s pocket all of a sudden feels infinitely heavier. 

“Picturesque, isn’t it?” 

Len’s voice pulls Barry back into the restaurant, into the moment. He smiles sheepishly, embarrassed at being caught staring at strangers, and shrugs. 

“They look happy,” Barry comments. 

Len raises an eyebrow. “I think the kid might beg to differ.” 

Barry chuckles. “You know what I mean,” he says. 

“I do,” Len agrees, smiling a little sadly. “They look like a nice family.” 

“Yeah, they do,” Barry whispers, more to himself than to the man seated across from him. He can’t ignore the phone’s weight anymore the way he did all afternoon. It feels like it might crush him, might burn through his pocket and char his flesh, if he doesn’t do something with it, and soon. His fingers twitch, nervous, as he withdraws it from his jeans - a wardrobe choice that had cost Len an extra fifty dollars, bribing the maître d’ to waive the restaurant’s upscale dress code.  

Barry holds down the top button until the phone comes to life, lighting up in his hands. A cold chill settles in his gut as a notification on the home screen alerts him to the thirty-eight texts and seven missed calls waiting for him. The majority of both are from Joe. 

“Is everything alright?” Len asks, his voice pitched low, cautious. 

Thickly, Barry swallows. He switches his phone quickly to sleep mode and shoves it back into his pocket, head shaking. “Yeah,” the speedster lies. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” 

Len frowns. “I’m not stupid, Barry,” he drawls. “And you’re a terrible liar.” 

The younger man flushes furiously, a fact he tries to by taking a long, deep sip of wine, but the thief sees right through him. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks. 

Barry shrugs. “What’s there to talk about?” he replies. “Before I left, I asked for some space, and some time, and I’m taking it. End of story.” 

Len nods, his eyes sharp and assessing. “Okay,” he says finally, settling back into his seat. “You should try the oysters,” the older man adds. “Before they get cold.” 

 

* * *

 

Barry stares blankly up at the ceiling. The room is dark, the only light coming from the soft glow of the clock on the bedside table. The curtains are heavy and expensive, guarding against the harsh glare of the streetlights on the waterfront below, though the speedster can still hear the gentle lapping of the water at the shore. 

Turning over, Barry checks the time. It’s nearing three in the morning, and with everything that’s happened in the past two days, he should be exhausted - is exhausted - but he still can’t sleep. Several hours prior, he managed to drift off after being brought to a mind-numbing climax, Len’s lips stretched obscenely around his cock, licking and sucking in a way that made Barry’s vision go white, an enthusiastic reciprocation of the blow job Barry had treated him to when they got back from the restaurant. 

Unfortunately, sleep hadn’t visited him long. A treacherous nightmare rocketed him awake, leaving behind vague impressions of grief, and fire, and ozone. Now, every time Barry closes his eyes, heavy lids drooping shut, a constricting feeling sqeezes painfully across his chest and forces them open again. 

The panic clawing at Barry’s throat, insistent and unforgiving, is nothing new, but it feels different this time. Nobody’s safety is being threatened. Nobody’s life is on the line. Still, he can’t escape the oppressive feeling of impending doom that’s smothering him more than the hotel’s plush pillows lying beneath his head ever could. 

He needs to talk to Joe. Needs to talk to Iris. And Cisco, and Caitlin, and, hell, even Wells. But he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t know what he could ever say to them after everything that’s happened. He knows that the longer he waits, the longer he keeps communication severed, the harder it’ll be to go back. 

Except, Barry’s not so sure he wants to. 

He just wants to be done, with all of it. Central City has burned him one too many times. His mother’s death, his father’s incarceration. The betrayal of his trust, time and time again. First by Eobard Thawne, the man who murdered his mother, posing as a mentor, and a friend. Next, it was Hunter Zolomon, a convicted serial killer, recreating Thawne’s exact lie, and, still, Barry was too blind to see it. Even the Harrison Wells from Earth-2 took his turn, murdering a man in cold blood right under Barry’s nose to steal his speed. 

His father left him. Patty left him. Eddie and Ronnie died because of him. 

It’s all just too much. 

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” 

Len’s quiet, gravelly voice startles Barry out of his thoughts. He turns over to look at the older man and feels the crushing weight lift immediately from his lungs until he’s finally able to breathe again.  

“Sorry,” Barry whispers softly, hands tucked together, resting on the mattress between them. “Did I wake you up.”

Len smiles. “I’m a light sleeper,” he replies. He reaches a hand out to trace along Barry’s side, and the younger man melts into his touch. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I’m just thinking,” Barry says, vague and noncommittal. 

“Obviously,” Len scoffs. 

The older man says nothing more, choosing instead to wait out Barry’s conflicted silence. The speedster wriggles, drawing his body closer to Len’s until their knees bump. He looks deeply into the other man’s eyes and feels an overwhelming wave of comfort and serenity crash through his long, spindly limbs. Len feels safe, like home should. Something Central City hasn’t felt like for longer than Barry cares to admit.

He wants to feel like this forever. 

“Will you marry me?” 

The silence that follows is deafening to Barry’s ears. Len is still and quiet, his eyes guarded and unreadable. Barry swallows thickly and waits, holding his breath, hands shaking, but with absolutely no regrets. Impulsively proposing to a man he’s been on all of one date with, a man who has tried in the past to kill him, is possibly the most foolhardy, irrational thing he’s ever done, but, in the moment, it felt right. Even now, under the oppressive weight of Len’s calculating blue eyes, it still feels right. 

Finally, Len’s gaze softens, and his lips part to speak. “Okay,” he says, and Barry’s heart stutters in his chest. 

The two men stare at one another for what feels like an eternity until Len’s words - his acceptance - finally click in Barry’s mind. Suddenly, he’s lunging forward, capturing Len’s lips between his own. He cups Len’s face unceremoniously, and the older man responds by wrapping one hand firmly around his waist. He places the other, palm-side down, against Barry’s stomach and scrapes his fingernails lightly against the raised muscles of the younger man’s abs. 

“Please, Len,” Barry pants into the older man’s mouth, legs already tangled together, erections swelling quickly. “Fuck me,” he begs, his voice quickly devolving into a desperate whine. “I can’t do slow anymore. Please, I just need you to fuck me.”

“Okay, Barry,” Len whispers, ducking his head to kiss the bulge of the speedster’s Adam’s apple, open-mouthed and wet. “Whatever you want, we’ll do.” 

Barry groans. “I want your cock,” he says, nearly breathless. “Inside. I want it so bad, it’s like I can already feel it.” 

In one fluid motion, Len rolls Barry onto his back and settles between his thighs. Their erections brush languidly together, and both men shiver. Barry’s head rolls back, and Len quickly capitalizes on the opportunity to suck bruises into the column of Barry’s neck that will be gone by the morning. 

“Keep talking, Barry,” Len instructs, the words whispered into the shell of the speedster’s ear. “Tell me exactly how you want it.” 

Len trails a hand down Barry’s chest, fingers brushing teasingly against his left nipple, the small nub hard with arousal. He lets his hand stop just over Barry’s hipbone, ghosting small circles against his skin, and makes no move to continue his downward trek. 

“Len,” Barry whines, plaintive and frustrated. 

The older man chuckles. “Yeah, Scarlet?” 

After another few seconds, Barry’s sex-addled brain pieces together what Len wants from him, and his body flares with heat, cock twitching heavily against his stomach. 

“I want your hand,” Barry pants, the flush colouring his chest and face ridiculously deep, but he’s too turned on to let the embarrassment stop him from continuing. “Around my dick.” 

Len’s hand begins trailing downward again, but stops dead in the vee of Barry’s hips at the younger man’s next words. “But not nearly as much as I want your fingers. In my ass. Stretching me open. Getting me ready for you.” 

Len sucks in a ragged breath. “Fuck, Barry,” he groans. 

“You like that?” Barry asks. 

When Len gives a subtle nod, his forehead brushes maddeningly against the hypersensitive skin of Barry’s sternum. “Keep talking,” he rasps. 

“I thought I didn’t have to beg,” Barry teases, his fingers trailing across the broad expanse of Len’s shoulders. 

“Not beg,” Len corrects. “Lead.” 

The whispered confession makes Barry’s toes curl, and a high, strung-out moan claws its way past his lips. “Fuck,” he whines. “That’s so hot.” 

“Yeah?” Len pants. 

“Yeah,” Barry affirms. 

There’s a small scuffle as Len stretches, pulling open the nightstand drawer where, earlier in the day, condoms and lube had been stashed. He retrieves a foil wrapper from the box inside, then a small bottle that looks black in the low light but Barry knows is instead a dark purple colour. 

Immediately, Len is back on him once more, tongue probing deep and firm inside Barry’s mouth as he slicks up his fingers. The obscene noises of their mouths moving together, as well the wetness of Len’s fingers rubbing against one another, sets Barry’s nerves on fire. 

“Inside,” Barry gasps, head tilting back enough that his mouth is free to speak. Len fills the void by planting kisses along the column of his throat, and the younger man almost loses his train of thought completely as he’s hit with another wave of pleasure. “Len, inside. I can’t wait.” 

Len says nothing in response, but his fingers, slick with lube, drop to Barry’s entrance and trace teasingly at the ring of muscle. 

The thief presses a single finger inside, just to the first knuckle, and Barry groans. “More,” the speedster demands, hips wiggling impatiently. “I can take it, Len. More.” 

The older man obliges without protest, pressing his finger the rest of the way in and massaging gently for only a few short moments before pressing a second finger exploratorily against the ring of muscle along with the first. 

“Yes,” Barry mewls, breath coming in quick, short pants. “I want you to. Please.” 

Len spends the next few minutes fingering Barry just the way the speedster likes, following his every direction, long, thick digits thrusting and scissoring and crooking until he hits that spot that makes Barry’s eyes water. 

“That’s it,” Barry pants, voice thready with desperation, nearly manic. “No more. I’m ready. I want your cock. I need it, so much, Babe. I need you. Please.”  

Barry’s frantic request rips a deep, guttural moan from Len’s lips, and the older man immediately withdraws his fingers to roll the condom down his length. Barry whines at the loss, but the emptiness is soon replaced with a firm pressure as Len’s cock nudges against his hole. 

“I want it hard,” Barry whispers, hands gripping frantically at Len’s shoulder, his nails leaving half-moon shaped depressions in his flesh that nearly draw blood. “Wanna feel you for days. Forever.” 

In stark contrast to Barry’s desperate fervor, Len lets his forehead press gently against the younger man’s and looks him dead in the eye. The intensity in his gaze makes Barry shiver, and his grip relaxes around the other man’s shoulders, his hands sliding upward instead to cradle the base of Len’s skull. 

“Forever, Barry,” Len promises, and the utterance takes Barry’s breath away. 

Len slides in with one long, measured stroke that fills the younger man deeper than he’s ever felt before. He gives it to Barry hard, every bit as hard as the speedster asked, but it feels different than all the quick, rough fucks he’s had in the past. The burn of being stretched out has never crawled up his spine, settled in his chest, the way it does now. The press of a stiff cock against his prostate has never made his eyes water with this same ineffable force, something greater than physical pleasure alone. 

Barry wants it to last forever, and, for a while, it feels like it does. Their hands twine together, Len’s weight pressing him into the mattress unyieldingly, but Barry feels like he’s floating, like they’re both floating on a cloud of their own passion and desire. 

Eventually, though, like anything in life, the moment has to end. 

Barry comes so hard he cries.

A new bed frame gets added to the list of charges on Len’s Black Card.   


	3. I'll Be Your Sinner In Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, God, school really is leaving me with, like, _zero_ spare time, isn't it? Of course, it probably doesn't help matters that I took time to write a [goldenvibe fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6864436) when I really should have been working on this instead, but you'll all forgive me, right? 
> 
> As always, leave me those lovely kudos and comments. Really lets a gal know you care!

Barry fidgets nervously as he stands beside Len in line at the Circuit Court Clerk’s office. He’s got both hands wrapped around the older man’s, and he bounces on balls of his feet, head swiveling to scan the room, from the other patrons in line to the historic photographs and generic stock prints hanging on the walls. 

“Relax, Barry,” Len says softly, head turned to whisper into the speedster’s ear. 

Barry stills and looks over at Len, blush colouring his cheeks. “Sorry,” he replies. 

Len hums. “Nervous?” he asks. 

“Good nervous,” Barry explains. He’s back to bouncing in place, not that he notices. “Excited. I just can’t believe we’re actually doing this.” 

“We don’t have to.” 

As the elderly woman at the clerk’s desk collects her papers and moves away, Len and Barry step forward to take her place. 

“I know,” Barry says, eyes still trained on the older man. “But I want to.” 

The woman behind the counter, a heavyset brunette in her mid-to-late thirties, clears her throat, and Barry finally looks away from Len’s distracting profile. For his part, Len leans casually against the edge of the desk and offers the woman a charismatic smile. 

“What can I do for you gentleman?” the clerk asks. The nameplate on her desk identifies her as Brenda. 

“We’d like to apply for a marriage license,” Len replies, keeping his voice calm and approachable. 

Brenda’s expression, which softened some with Len’s considerable charm, breaks into a wide, warm smile, and she nods enthusiastically. “Of course,” she says. 

As she begins printing out the applicable paperwork, she makes small talk. “So,” Brenda asks. “When’s the wedding?” 

“Oh,” Barry says. He looks over at Len, who's shooting the younger man an unreadable look, and frowns. “We haven’t exactly settled on a date yet.” 

“Oh,” Brenda parrots, a bit taken aback. “Well,” she continues. “The license is only valid for six months, but it’ll be ready to use as early as six o’clock Saturday morning.” 

“We were thinking sooner rather than later,” Len supplies. 

Brenda smiles. “Eager to start your lives together?” she asks. 

Barry looks over at Len and feels his heart swelling and melting in chest all at once. He shoots the older man a slow, dopey smile and sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we are.” 

It doesn’t take long for the couple to secure their official marriage licence from the cheerful brunette. Barry imagined more hassle, more fanfare, over such a life-altering event, but, in fact, it’s about as dry and uneventful as a trip to the DMV. With one final round of well wishes from Brenda, the two men leave the clerk’s office, license in hand, and begin walking absently through the streets of downtown Opal City. 

“You know,” Barry says conversationally as they stroll down Main Street. “Most people spend, like, at least a year planning their weddings.” 

Len looks over at the younger man and raises an eyebrow. “Anticipating trouble with the seating arrangement,” he teases. 

Barry scoffs. “You know what I mean,” he says. “Even without the big ceremony, there are still all these things we have to do. Like rent tuxes. Or, God, we don’t even have wedding bands picked out yet. Do we even want wedding bands?” 

Abruptly, Len stops walking, and Barry bumps lightly into the older man’s side. 

“Do you?” Len asks. 

Barry frowns. “Why do you always do that?” he snaps. 

“Do what?” Len wonders. 

“That,” Barry replies. “Always defer to me, let me make the decisions. This isn’t like letting me pick the restaurant, Len. We’re talking about the rest of our lives. Do you even care? Or did you just agree to marry me because I asked?” 

For a long, drawn out moment, Len is completely silent, staring intently at Barry with his brow furrowed, expression unreadable. Barry swallows thickly and shifts from foot to foot, on edge with nerves. Finally, Len sighs and looks away from Barry’s face to stare at his feet. 

“Of course I want this, Barry” the older man replies, voice small and quiet. “And I’m sorry if I’m making you feel like I don’t.” 

Len sighs again and shakes his head, obviously troubled, and his malaise spurs Barry into action, the younger man taking his hand and squeezing gently, hoping to offer reassurances. 

“I just don’t know how to do this,” Len admits. “How to prove it. I thought doing things the way you wanted might be the right place to start.” 

“But not about getting married?” 

Though he wishes it wouldn’t, Barry’s whole body shakes with nerves. He’s terrified he’s just asked a question he doesn’t want answered. Instead of turning away, however, Len just looks up and him and smiles a soft, reassuring smile. 

“Not about getting married, Barry,” he affirms. 

Barry lets out a relieved breath. “Good,” he says, chuckling lightly. “And what about the rings?” 

Len juts his chin in the direction of the storefront to their right and Barry looks over, suddenly sheepish. The display in the window is of an assortment of gold chains and watches, and the sign out front reads  _ Freemont & Sons Jewelers _ . 

“Wouldn’t kill us to take a look,” Len says. 

A bell dings overhead as the thief pulls the door open. He holds out a hand and gestures for Barry to go in ahead of him, which the younger man does. 

The shop is elegant and gently lit, the jewelry in the display cases perfectly catching the light, an obvious manipulation by the store owners rather than a matter of sheer happenstance. The floors are solid marble, the nearby armchairs pristine antiques, and Barry makes a point of not looking at any of the price tags. He doesn’t want to spoil his wonder and excitement with the sharp reminder of reality. 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” greets the young man behind the customer service desk. His voice startles Barry, and he jerks in place, but Len remains stoic as ever, smiling and nodding politely. “Is there anything I can help you with this morning?” 

“Just browsing,” Len replies, and the young man nods. 

Len leads them over to a nearby display of wedding bands, and Barry frowns as he begins looking them over. “Should we get something with a diamond?” the speedster asks, fidgeting. “I mean, that’s traditional, right?” 

Len shrugs. “Traditional, sure,” he replies. “But that doesn’t mean we need to.”

Barry nods, but the older man isn’t finished yet. “Mind you,” Len adds. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t for the sake of being  _ progressive  _ either. I don’t want one, personally, but what you chose to do for your own ring is entirely up to you, Barry.” 

Barry sighs and scratches gently at the back of his head. He stares down at the rings in the case and examines them carefully. Some bands are highly intricate, inset with either dozens of small diamonds or several larger ones along the circumference. Others are exquisite in their simplicity, singular bands of platinum or gold left unembellished and unadorned. 

“I don’t think I want a diamond either,” Barry replies after considering his options carefully.

“See anything in particular you like?” Len wonders. 

Hesitantly, Barry points to the small, gold band that’s captured his attention. It’s about five millimeters thick, domed in shape, edges curved. There’s nothing especially noteworthy about it, which is perhaps what draws Barry to it most. 

“It’s nice,” Len whispers. His front presses along Barry’s back as he leans in to get a better look, and it gives the younger man goosebumps. 

“You think?” Barry asks. His entire face flushes red with uncertainty and he immediately begins to stammer. “I mean, not that we have to get a matching set or anything. It’s up to you.” 

Softly, Len chuckles. His breath against Barry’s ear feels nice. “I know,” the older man replies. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” 

Barry turns to give Len a curious look. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah,” Len replies. “If that’s what you want, too.” 

A broad, all-consuming smile spreads across Barry’s face. “Yeah,” he says. “That would be nice.” 

And so, Len calls over the sales agent and gets the sizing and purchase underway. Barry remains quiet through the whole process, eyes darting around the elegant shop. A sign above the register catches his attention, and, as the agent rings up their purchase, Barry clears his throat. 

“You do engravings here?” the speedster asks. He immediately feels stupid, repeating exactly what’s written on the sign, but the young man smiles pleasantly at him nonetheless. 

“We do,” the salesman replies. “The job could be done as early as Saturday morning. Is there something specific you have in mind?” 

Barry looks over at Len, who's giving him a curious if otherwise neutral expression. “I-I was just thinking,” the younger man stammers, quickly flushing and looking down at his feet. 

“Barry?” Len prompts, voice calm and patient. It’s soothing enough to draw Barry’s attention, and the speedster looks up with uncertain eyes. 

“There’s something I wanna do,” Barry admits. “But I want it to be a secret. Sort of like a wedding gift. If that’s okay with you.” 

Softly, Len smiles. He takes his Black Card out of his wallet and slides it across the counter at the sales agent. “Charge it to my card,” he tells the blond. Then, he looks over at Barry fondly, placing a gentle hand against his forearm. “I’ll wait outside.” 

Leaning forward, Len presses a delicate kiss to Barry’s lips before turning and exiting the shop, leaving Barry alone with the salesman to place his request. 

 

* * *

 

Barry fiddles anxiously with his cell phone like it’s a grenade grasped between his trembling hands. 

His day with Len was good. Great, even. Exceptional. They went from the jewelry shop to a small, kitschy seafood place on the waterfront for lunch. The fish was caught fresh that morning, a fact that came across well in the flavour profile of the otherwise simple dishes. 

From there, they went to several clothing stores and boutiques. Barry hadn’t packed more than a single change of clothes, most of the space in his duffel bag taken up by his special protein bars instead. They were also fitted for tuxedos at a nicer shop downtown. It was arranged to have the tuxes delivered to the hotel on Saturday morning, which was as quickly as Len’s money could buy. 

_ Saturday morning. _

It’s a date Barry can’t shake, can’t get out of his head. First at the clerk’s office, next at the jeweler’s, then the tailor’s. Starting Saturday morning, there’s nothing to stop Barry and Len from actually doing it, from actually getting married. In as soon as thirty-two hours, Barry might be somebody’s husband. He’s already somebody's fiancé. 

And he can’t put off talking to Joe any longer. 

When Barry’s shaky fingers select Joe’s name from his contacts list, the call doesn’t get past the first ring. Immediately, Joe’s panicked breathing come through the line, and a wave of guilt washes over the speedster. 

“Barry?” Joe asks, voice tight and anxious. 

“Hey, Joe,” Barry replies, running the fingers of his left hand through his hair. He’s seated on the end of the bed - replaced since last night - foot tapping nervously against the floor. Len’s gone out to pick up a few things, promising a surprise of his own when he returns. 

“Barry, where are you?” Joe snaps. 

Barry winces. “It’s not important,” he says. 

“Not important?” Joe cuts in before Barry has a chance to continue. “Son, you’d better have a damn good reason for running off in the middle of the night, then turning off your phone so nobody’s able to get ahold of you. We were all worried sick.  _ I’m  _ worried sick, Barry.” 

“I know, Joe,” Barry sighs. “And I’m sorry.” He hesitates a moment, then adds, “I left a note.” 

On the other end, Joe lets out a deep, frustrated sigh. “ _ Need to get away for a while. Don’t worry. Will call soon. _ ” 

Barry isn’t sure if Joe is reading from the torn piece of notepaper, or if he’s actually read the message so many times he has it memorized, but, either way, the speedster cringes. “I didn’t mean to sound so cagey. I just didn’t know what I was doing,” Barry explains.  

Joe scoffs. “Clearly,” he says. Then, he takes a long, slow breath, and tries again, more calmly this time. “Where are you, Barry?” 

Barry sighs “Opal City,” he replies. 

“Why?” Joe asks. 

Barry shrugs, not that his foster father is able to see. “Because Coast City was too far to travel in one night,” he says, sarcasm thick in his voice. 

“Too far for a guy with superspeed?” Joe quips, sounding doubtful. 

Again, Barry gives the same, useless shrug. “I wasn’t alone.” 

For a long moment, Joe is silent. Barry chews nervously at his lips, leg still bouncing, fast enough that it’s starting to blur. Finally, the detective speaks, words cutting like knives, sharp enough to make Barry flinch from over eight hundred miles away. 

“What is going on with you, Barry?” 

Joe’s tone is so filled with judgement, before Barry’s even had a chance to speak, to explain himself, and it immediately shuts the younger man down. He feels his lip curl against his will and he shakes his head, a bitter scoff pushing past his lips. 

“You know what, Joe?” he says. “Forget it. Forget I even called. All you need to know is that I’m fine, alright. The rest? The rest doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t get it, anyway.” 

“Don’t take that tone with me, Barry,” Joe snaps, agitation quickly escalating once more. “I’m not the one who just took off out of what looks like a war zone without even having the decency to tell my friends and family  _ to their faces _ that I was leaving. You need some time? Fine. But talk to me, Barry. Tell me what’s going on. Tell me when you’re coming home, at least.” 

Barry sighs, instantly deflating. He stares down at his feet, now still, and, when he speaks again, his voice is quiet and hollow. “I don’t know, Joe,” he whispers. 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Joe asks. He sounds like he’s seconds away from breaking into a yell. 

“That I don’t know, okay,” Barry barks, jumping up from the end of the bed and beginning to pace around the room. He throws one hand up in the air while the other still holds the phone in a death grip against his ear. “I just don’t know.” 

Joe hesitates a moment. “You have work on Monday,” he says finally. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll figure it out,” Barry replies. 

Suddenly, the sound of the doorknob turning pulls Barry from the conversation. He glances over at the door, then turns his attention back to the man on the other line. “Look, Joe, I’ve gotta go,” he says. “Don’t bother calling until tomorrow, okay? And I’m fine.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Barry hangs up, putting his phone down on the bedside table. He turns back to the door just in time to see Len enter, a small, mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“You look… pleased,” Barry says slowly, sounding a little weary. 

Len huffs a laugh. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he replies. 

“With you,” Barry teases. “Who knows.” 

This has Len laughing outright. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment,” he says. 

Barry smirks. “You would.” 

The older man approaches the bed, then takes Barry around the waist and pulls him in for a deep, passionate kiss. By the time they separate, Barry’s smirk has transformed into an honest smile, and his eyes are narrowed into heavy, contented slits. 

“Is this about my surprise?” the younger man asks. 

“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” Len replies. 

After a few more probing, promising kisses, Len drags Barry out of the room, into the hallway, then down the elevator and through the lobby doors. The air is pleasantly warm, even with midnight fast approaching, and the Corvette is already parked just outside. 

“Where are we going?” Barry asks. His hand in wrapped around Len’s, and the heat sizzling between them makes the night feel even warmer than it is. 

“Do you trust me?” the older man asks. 

It’s said teasingly, but Barry knows it’s not. “Unconditionally,” the speedster replies. 

A slow, fond smile spreads across Len’s face. “Then get in,” he says, hand slipping out of reach as he rounds the car to the driver’s side. 

The two men drive in silence, hands held over the center console, at complete peace with the night, and with each other, until Len turns the Corvette down an otherwise unremarkable dirt road. They’re about an hour outside of the city, up the coast from what Barry could see of their drive out the window, and the younger man perks up curiously in his seat, looking around. 

“Where are we?” Barry wonders. 

Len chuckles. “What part of surprise don’t you understand?” he teases. 

Barry frowns, but he sits back in his seat without comment and waits, if impatiently, for Len’s master plan to reveal itself. He’s not disappointed when, five minutes later, they pull up in front of a small, deserted stretch of beach. 

Len puts the car in park, then reaches into the trunk space behind them to grab whatever items he stashed there earlier. He comes out with a blanket and a picnic basket, then turns back to Barry and grins. 

“Feel like stargazing?” Len asks. 

Instead of answering, Barry grins back, then opens his door, exiting the Corvette and waiting in front of the hood in the bright glow of the headlights. Len turns the sports car off, then joins Barry outside, transferring the basket and blanket to one hand so he can link fingers with the speedster using the other. 

When they’re about a dozen feet from the water’s edge, Len spreads the thick, black blanket flat across the sand. He kicks off his shoes, prompting Barry to do the same, then sits on the blanket and rolls off his socks. Len’s toes curl leisurely in the cool, fine grains as he pulls a bottle of Cristal and two champagne flutes from the picnic basket. 

“This is nice,” Barry says, quiet, contemplative, as he buries his toes in the sand beside Len’s. 

The sound of a cork popping cuts through the lull of the waves lapping against the shore. Wordlessly, Len hands Barry a flute, and the younger man takes it. Thier fingertips brush as the glass is passed from hand to hand, and it sends a jolt of electricity up Barry’s spine. 

Both men finish their drinks in complete and total silence, save for the ambient sounds of the ocean in the background. Gently, Len takes the flute from Barry’s grasp, then tugs the younger man to lay down beside him on the blanket. They stare quietly up at the stars, sides pressed together, fingers intertwined. 

They’re far enough outside the city that the sky is clear, every twinkling light perfectly visible against the inky black swath of night. Barry gets lost in the vastness of space, the brine of the air, sharp in his nostrils, damp on his skin. 

After a moment, Len bumps his shoulder against Barry’s and pulls the speedster back to Earth. “What are you thinking about?” the older man asks, voice soft and measured. 

“Nothing,” Barry replies with a sigh, still staring up at the stars. “Which is nice, you know? Different.”

Both Barry and Len are quiet then, considering Barry’s words, for a long moment before Barry speaks again. “I don’t think I wanna go back to Central City,” the speedster admits, the confession barely a whisper, nearly lost in the whistling of the ocean breeze. 

The silence of the night suddenly feels oppressive, and a firm, anxious weight settles in Barry’s chest as he waits for Len to say something, anything, in reply. 

“What would you want to do instead?” Len asks finally. 

Barry relaxes. “I don’t know,” he replies with a small, nervous chuckle. 

Len chuckles too. “How about this?” he begins, pausing to bring Barry’s hand against his mouth where he can press a gentle kiss to the younger man’s knuckles. “We combine your superspeed and my criminal knowhow and become the most notorious partners in crime since Bonnie and Clyde.” 

Barry erupts in a fit of laughter. “You know how that ended, right?” he teases. 

Len shrugs. “Obviously we’d be smarter about it,” he replies. Barry snuggles more firmly into his side, a dopey smile on his face, so Len presses on. “You could have anything you wanted, whenever you wanted it. The world would be yours for the taking. You’d never have to worry about anything again.” 

“Sounds nice,” Barry whispers. His lips hover just above Len’s, and the older man smiles, his eyes warm and gentle. 

“If you wanted that life, Barry, I’d give it to you in a heartbeat,” he promises. “Any life you wanted, I’d give it to you.” 

Barry doesn’t reply. Instead, he closes the distance between their mouths and catapults them headlong into a passionate kiss that leaves both men breathless. Shifting his weight, Barry rolls his body atop Len’s and cradles a hand around the older man’s jaw. 

“Would it turn you on?” Barry pants into the sliver of space between their parted mouths. “If I wasn’t always such a hero? If maybe I was bad for once?”  

Len groans deeply, his hips thrusting unconsciously forward. “Barry,” he whispers. It sounds like a warning. 

“It’s okay,” the speedster says. “It’s just a fantasy, Len. I know who you really are. I’ve always known.” 

Leaning forward, Barry captures Len’s lips in a deep, reassuring kiss that has the older man mewling below him. Then, Barry sits back against Len’s thighs and pulls his shirt over his head.

Len gives him a curious look, head tilting. “What are you doing?” he asks. 

Undoing his buckle with a salacious smirk, Barry replies, “being bad.” He rises to his feet and shucks off his pants and underwear in one go, pale, naked skin shining in the faint glow of the moonlight. 

“Skinny dipping is technically illegal, right?” he adds, stepping out of his pant legs and backing toward the water, smiling mischievously all the while. “Care to join me?” 

Len laughs a carefree, breezy laugh, then rushes enthusiastically to his feet, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes. Barry joins in on the laughter, turning and running to the water’s edge, though at a regular, human speed, while Len still fumbles with getting his jeans off. 

The older man catches up with the speedster just as both of their toes hit the water, and Barry shrieks, undignified. “Oh, it’s cold,” he whines. 

“You change your mind about skinny dipping?” Len teases. 

Barry takes a deep breath, then pulls himself up to his full height, chest stuck out defiantly. “No,” he replies. “Because I’m bad, remember?” 

And Len humours him, though not without a fairly glaring smirk. “Of course you are,” he says.  

When both men are far out enough that they’re able to tread water, Barry swims directly into Len’s space, soaking up the heat of his body. The speedster places an uncoordinated, sloppy kiss against Len’s mouth, thrown off by the bobbing of their bodies up and down and up and down with the gentle undulation of the waves. 

Soon, the kissing isn’t enough. Barry leads them back toward the shore, until their feet are able to  touch sandy bottom. Both men are covered in gooseflesh, the water evaporating against their skin doing nothing to help keep warm. Barry compensates for the chill by leaving as little flesh exposed to the air as possible. His chest is pressed squarely against Len’s, his arms tangled around the older man’s back, and Len’s arms tangled around Barry in turn. 

Fumbling closer to the shoreline still, the couple fall unceremoniously into the shallow water where the sea meets the sand. The rough, abrasive grains scrape against the sensitive skin of Barry’s back, and it sends a shock of pleasure up the younger man’s spine. He leans up to kiss Len again, rivulets of salt water sliding into their mouths as they move together. 

The next rolling wave crashes over Len’s shoulders, knocking him further into Barry’s space. Their half-hard cocks brush together, the scratch of sand adding just the right amount of pleasure-pain to the mix. Barry groans loudly, head tossing back. Then, he drops his mouth to the hollow of Len’s throat and plants a wet, open-mouthed kiss. 

“Oh, gross,” Barry exclaims, drawing instantly back and sticking his tongue out, then in, then out again. “I got sand in my mouth.” 

Len promptly laughs at him, which only serves to fuel Barry’s indignation. In the space of a heartbeat, Barry has their positions flipped, Len suddenly the one on his back, and he leans down to give the older man an indecent kiss with lots of probing, demanding tongue. 

It’s Len’s turn to pull away sputtering, mouth invaded by hoards of unwelcomed sand, and Barry laughs. “Not so funny now, is it?” he teases. 

“Come here,” Len growls playfully. He wrapps a broad palm around the back of Barry’s neck, then goes for broke, pulling him in for another kiss as he moves to a sit upright. Barry revels in their new position, his feet sunk ankle-deep in the wet sand behind Len’s back. He rocks his hips forward, and the press of their erections against one another makes Len moan. 

The older man takes one hand from where it’s braced in the sand to wrap around their cocks. The first drag is painfully coarse, too many grains stuck stubbornly to his skin. Len drops his first to the water, hoping to wash it mostly clean, before returning it to their erections once more. 

“That’s better,” Barry pants, his forehead pressed against Len’s, the puffs of their breath mingling together. “That’s so much better, Len. It’s good.” 

“Yeah?” Len asks. 

“Yeah.” 

They stay like that, Len stroking them in time to the rhythm of Barry’s rocking hips, until they both come, streams of semen washed quickly away by the lapping waves against their skin. 

“We’re gonna get your Corvette dirty,” Barry says after a moment, when the scorching high of orgam is replaced with the chill of the night air, his whole body shaking as the sea breeze whips against his skin. 

Len huffs a laugh. “I’ll live,” he replies. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you liked it, leave kudos and comments, and come check me out on [tumblr](http://asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com/).


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